One Year Old

Is it we that are wise, is it we,

Who have bought with a price of grief

A wisdom seldom free

From scorn or disbelief,

Who find this world fulfil

An end that is not our will,

Who toil with the light in our eyes

Showing us scarce begun

The things we meant to have done,

Is it we, is it we, that are wise?

Or O, is it you, is it you,

That have yet no language of ours,

But whose eyes are a laughter blue

As of light slipping under the showers,

Whose carol, sweeter than words,

Trills clear as an April bird's,

Or a dancing brook on the hill,--

Blithe springs of a confidence

That bubbles, we know not whence,

And has no knowledge of ill?

Lo, our desires have gone

Like ships to a future far

And vanished in mist alone

By no befriending star.

But all to you is a wonder

Fresh as the sky, whereunder

Life moves to pledge delight;

You need no hope to bear

The day through the day's care;

Your joys are all in sight.

You want not a word to tell

What lies beyond our guess

And springs like a sparkling well

In a lovely speechlessness.

And we that have shaped with art

Language of mind and of mart,

We have never yet found speech

For the heart's blood deepest stirred:

Something is flown with a word

Or is buried beneath our reach.

Our speech is spun from the pain

Of thought and heavy with years,

And dyed with an ancient stain

From passion and blood and tears.

But O, I vow, when I hear

Your wordless carol clear,

I would cast this speech that endures

As a sorry old patchwork coat,

Could I but re--fill my throat

With the liquid joy in yours.